dmaster, &c., even when alone), and I was so afraid of the boys
getting hold of them, that I made a big hole in the kitchen fire one
day, and burned them all. At least, so I thought; but one volume escaped
the flames, and the fun Eleanor and I have now in re-reading this has
made me regret that I burned the others. Of course, even if I put down
all that I can remember, it will not be like having kept my diaries.
Eleanor's biography, in this respect, will be much better than mine; but
still, I remember a good deal now that I dare say I shall forget soon,
and in sixteen more years these histories may amuse us as much as the
old diaries. We are all growing up now. We have even got to speaking of
"old times," by which we mean the times when we used to wade in the
brooks and----

But this is beside the mark, and I must not allow myself to wander off.
I am too apt to be discursive. When I had to write leading articles for
our manuscript periodical, Jack used to laugh at me, and say, "If it
wasn't for Eleanor's disentangling your sentences, you'd put parenthesis
within parenthesis till, when you got yourself into the very inside
one, you'd be as puzzled as a pig in a labyrinth, and not know how to
get back to where you started from." And I remember Clement--who
generally disputed a point, if possible--said, "How do you know she
wouldn't get back, if you let her work out each train of thought in
peace? The curt, clean-cut French style may suit some people, whose
brains won't stretch far without getting tired; but others may have more
sympathy with a Semitic cast of mind."

This excuse pleased me very much. It was pleasanter to believe that my
style was Semitic, than to allow, with Jack, that it tended towards that
of Mrs. Nickleby. Though at that time my notion of the meaning of the
word Semitic was not so precise as it might have been.

Our home is a beautiful place in the summer, and in much of spring and
autumn. In winter I fancy it would look dreary to the eyes of strangers.
At night the wind comes over the top of Deadmanstone Hill, and down the
valley, whirls the last leaves off the old trees by the church, and
sends them dancing over the closely-ranged gravestones. Then up through
the village it comes, and moans round our house all night, like some
miserable being wanting to get in. The boys say it does get in, more
than enough, especially into their bedrooms; but then boys always
grumble. It certainly makes strange noi